New Uses For Old Boyfriends (20 page)

“Don't worry—I saw it.” He gave her a smoldering once-over before he closed her door. Then he jogged to the cliff's edge, retrieved the red dress, got into the driver's seat, and handed her his dry shirt.

“Put this on,” he commanded.

She obliged, sliding her arms into the long sleeves and snuggling into the soft fabric, taking a little bit longer to cover herself than was strictly necessary. “I'm never giving this back,” she informed him.

“Good. Get over here.”

She rested her head on his bare shoulder, basking in the heat
blasting out of the air vents, jacked up on adrenaline, and dripping all over the leather seats. The nerves in her toes and fingertips tingled at the sudden change in temperature.

“That was worth a fifteen-year wait.” She hesitated, afraid to say what she was feeling. Then she went ahead and said it anyway: “
You
were worth a fifteen-year wait.”

He ran his fingertip along her lower lip, then turned her face up to kiss her. She met him halfway, and the moment his lips touched hers, she was keenly aware that she wasn't wearing pants.

And he wasn't wearing a shirt.

Life was good.

They shifted positions, starting to get comfortable, starting to explore each other.

He deepened the kiss and she parted her lips and both of them tasted like salt from the ocean, and then . . .

The real fifteen-year-olds arrived.

Flashlight beams bounced through the car's interior, followed by a pack of kids who were laughing and yelling and swearing at one another at the top of their lungs. Judging by the number of voices Lila heard, there must have been at least four boys and three girls . . . plus at least three six-packs.

In addition to beer, these kids were also apparently drunk on Friday-night freedom and they were not pleased to find adult interlopers in their midst. They made a dramatic show of stopping and speculating as to why two “grown-ass adults” would be fogging up the car windows in the middle of a half-constructed luxury home community.

“They're probably pretending they live here,” the alpha female opined loudly. “Like, giant, empty houses turn them on. Sick and twisted.”

“Damn kids.” Lila pulled away from Malcolm and straightened the front of the shirt. “How did they even get in here?”

He laughed. “Since when can six-foot-high walls and a fancy gate stop a bunch of high schoolers?”

“Do they not understand that we're trying to make up for lost time here?” She rolled down her window and yelled, “Don't be selfish! You guys still have time.
We're old!
”

All she got in response were some catcalls and a series of loud popping sounds.

She stuck her head out into the darkness. “Fireworks are illegal, you . . . you hooligans!”

Malcolm tugged her back into the car and rolled her window back up. “Stop harassing the teenagers.”

“Why should I?” she demanded. “We were here first.”

He started the car and drove back toward the gate. “They're bored, they're hormonal, and their cliff is being turned into a bunch of McMansions. Let them have fun while they can.”

“Whatever.” She finished buttoning the shirt and buckled her seat belt. “I want to have fun, too.”

He stopped the car and gave her his full attention. “Lila, I don't make a lot of promises, but I promise you this: We are going to have fun.”

Her whole body thrilled at the undertone of dark sensuality in his voice. “Yeah?”

Slowly and deliberately, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss onto the hollow of her throat. “Baby, I am going to show you such a good time.”

For a moment, all she heard was the rustling of fabric, but then she thought she heard a muffled bark.

Both of them startled.

As they straightened up in their seats, a giant, shaggy black dog trotted in front of the headlights.

Lila told herself that she couldn't possibly have seen what she just saw. The famous phantom of Black Dog Bay. The town legend
she'd always dismissed as a bunch of hooey. According to lore, the black dog appeared when your life was changing forever. When your past mistakes were behind you and a new life was unfolding, whether you liked it or not.

The black dog appeared when things were meant to be.

Malcolm stared straight ahead at the now-empty path. “What was that?”

Something in his voice made her think he knew exactly what that was.

Lila tried to sound causal. “Um, I think it was a bear?”

He shook his head. “Too small to be a bear.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Was it . . . was it a dog?”

“Maybe it was a badger,” he suggested.

“Maybe it was a skunk,” she said. “Or a runaway pony.”

“Maybe it was a wolverine.”

“Yeah, probably a wolverine.”

They lapsed into silence on the drive back into town, one pantless, one shirtless, both of them struggling to make sense of what they'd just witnessed.

By the time they pulled into the Alderses' driveway, they had agreed upon the only possible conclusion:

“Never happened,” Malcolm declared.

“Never happened,” Lila agreed. On impulse, she leaned over and gave him two more kisses on the lips.

“One for tonight, and one for sophomore year.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and delivered one more. “And a little something to hold you over till next time.”

He caught her arm as she pulled away, then kissed her again, slowly and thoroughly, as though he had all the time in the world and knew exactly what he was going to do with it. “
That's
to hold me over.”

Lila scooped up her shoes and dashed up the porch steps,
perfectly aware that the hemline of his shirt was creeping up as she went.

Daphne, who was waiting for a full report in the front hall, regarded her daughter's bedraggled state with dismay. “What on earth happened to you?”

Lila tucked her damp hair behind her ear. “Love, lust, delayed adolescence. 'Night!”

“Wait! Where's my Ceil Chapman dress?”

“Backseat of Malcolm's Jeep. I'll get it back next time I show up unannounced at his house.”

“Come back here, young lady! What are you
wearing
?”

“The delectable marine's shirt.” Lila couldn't stop smiling. “He managed to keep his pants on—for tonight. We're sharing an outfit.”

“You . . . He . . . I . . .” Daphne sputtered through a whole cycle of emotions. “I've never seen you like this.”

“Neither have I.” Lila pulled a strand of seaweed out of her hair. “What can I say? I'm a late bloomer.”

L
ila awakened at sunrise to the sound of pans and glassware clattering in the kitchen and the smell of something cinnamony. She ran a brush through her hair, threw on jeans and a sweater (and lipstick and mascara, because God forbid she should greet unexpected houseguests at seven a.m. looking less than perfectly put together), then went downstairs to find Summer chowing down at the breakfast bar while her mother made pancakes at the huge stainless steel, gourmet-restaurant-quality stove.

“Good morning. You guys are up early.” Lila dropped the bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed routine and yawned when she realized there was no one who needed to be dazzled and impressed.

“Hi.” Summer, sporting a bedhead Mohawk, handed her a mug of coffee. “We're having a power breakfast. Planning for the fashion show.”

“It's going to be great.” Daphne looked as though she'd been up for hours in her diamond earrings and patent red loafers.

Lila accepted the coffee gratefully. “That sounds—hey, why does she get to have pancakes but I couldn't have waffles the other day?”

Daphne brandished the spatula. “Because
she's
not trying to seduce an ex-boyfriend in a Marilyn Monroe dress.”

“She's getting married,” Lila said. This had the intended effect of taking all the heat off her.

Daphne spun over to Summer, still armed with the spatula. “Ooh, you are? Why haven't I heard about this? When's the big day?”

“You'd have to ask Ingrid.” Summer tried to look disgusted, but couldn't quite conceal her excitement. “It's really her wedding. I'll just show up and say the vows.”

“Let me see the ring.”

Summer held out her bare hands. “Haven't gotten around to that yet.”

Daphne gave a little
hmph
of disapproval. “Where are you and Dutch registered?”

Summer's expression changed from excited to horrified. “We're not. We're keeping this low-key. Two slackers in love.”

“But you have to register for gifts, darling.”

“I don't want gifts.” Summer took a huge swig of coffee. “I just want to be done with the wedding.” She shot an accusatory look at Lila, who responded with an angelic smile. “Anyway, back to the fashion show.”

“I can help you with your gift registry,” Daphne offered. “Not to toot my own horn, but I have exquisite taste. Just point me to a Web site and I'll choose the best linens, the most classic china patterns, the finest crystal.”

At the mention of china patterns, Summer looked physically nauseated. “Can't I just register at the liquor store and be done with it?”

“Yes.” Lila gave her mother a look. “Don't terrorize the bride- to-be.”

Summer flashed her a thumbs-up and slipped her a contraband pancake wrapped in a paper towel. “As I was saying, we need to get an initial head count for the fashion show by the end of the month because—”

“That's what I don't get,” Lila interjected. “You're fine with
working the runway in a bright pink nightgown in front of hundreds of people, but you're allergic to weddings?”

Summer heaved an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “Strutting around in sex-kitten pajamas that Zsa Zsa Gabor would wear is one thing—”

“
Eva
Gabor,” Daphne corrected.

“—but walking down the aisle in a big mess of tulle is quite another.” Summer gagged. “And then the whole deal with the garter and the bouquet toss and the veil . . . it's all so antiquated and patriarchal.” She paused. “Oh my God, Ingrid's rubbing off on me.”

“Don't spook her,” Daphne admonished Lila. “She and Ingrid are going to be the stars of the fashion show.”

“Ingrid's in the show now?” Lila laughed. “Have you broken the news to her yet?”

“No, because I know she'll try to use it as leverage against me. She'll probably make me agree to a harpist at the wedding.” Summer clutched the countertop. “Or a string quartet. That girl is a ruthless negotiator.”

“Well, give her whatever she wants, because that beaded Pucci minidress Lila found at the thrift store will be divine on her.” Daphne patted her daughter's hand. “That was a great score, sweet pea. I don't think it's ever been worn.”

“You found a mint-condition Pucci at a thrift store?” Summer looked impressed. “How did that happen?”

Lila brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” Summer turned to Daphne. “I saw some signs for an estate sale that starts at nine. We should go check it out and see if there's any jewelry or luggage.”

Lila made a slicing motion across her throat. “She's not allowed to shop.”

“It's not shopping; it's business,” Daphne said.

“We should leave as soon as possible.” Summer got a competitive gleam in her eyes. “You have to get there early if you want the good stuff.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Daphne jumped as her cell phone chirped. “What was that?”

“You have a text,” Summer informed her.

“Mom, you finally learned to text?” Lila put down her pancake and gave a little golf clap.

“Not really.” Daphne handed her phone to Summer. “Summer's been corresponding with Cedric all morning.”

“Ooh, is he coming for the fashion show?” Lila asked.

Summer glanced down at the phone. “No.”

Daphne's perfect posture gave way to a pouty slouch.

Summer skimmed the text. “But he says he wants you to come see him in Belgium—”

“Right.” Daphne sniffed. “With all my disposable income.”

“—and he says he's spreading the word about Unfinished Business to ‘buyers who matter.'” Summer set the phone aside. “What does that mean?”

Daphne perked up again. “Vintage couture is big business overseas, you know. Dealers in New York and Paris and London send buyers around the world to find important pieces.”

Lila sipped her coffee. “We do have some important pieces.”

“But no one's ever going to look for them in Black Dog Bay, Delaware.” Daphne sighed. “What we need is a satellite store in New York. Chelsea or the West Village.”

“I'll get right on that,” Lila said. “Right after I find out if we're going to make rent next month.”

“I suppose you're right.” Yet another weary sigh. “We're not a model and a TV star anymore; we're just a widow and a divorcée.”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .”

“Be careful how you talk about yourself.” Summer pointed
her fork at Daphne. “What you think, you become. I believe the Buddha said that. Or a bumper sticker.”

“Facts are facts. And the fact is, I just don't have the moxie to make it in New York anymore,” Daphne said. “Besides, I've been in this house for thirty-five years now. It's who I am. It's where I belong.”

Lila devoured the rest of her pancake, then excused herself to go shower and change. “I have to go vacuum the shop and clean the windows before we open for the day.” She gave her mother a hug after she rinsed her plate. “Keep it up with the texting lessons and stay out of trouble, you two.”

“You're the one who needs to stay out of trouble.” Daphne stage-whispered to Summer, “She came home from a date last night with no pants on.”

“I approve,” Summer said, then stage-whispered back to Daphne. “Who's the guy? Not the high school boyfriend again?”

“No, no, she's moved on to a delectable marine.”

“Ooh, then I
definitely
approve.”

Lila watched them with her eyes narrowed. “I don't think I like you guys hanging out together.”

“We'll be sure to bear that in mind next time we're taking a vote,” Summer said.

Daphne crossed the kitchen and gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for taking care of the opening today, sweet pea. I'll be over right after we hit the estate sale.”

“Don't spend any money,” Lila warned.

“I'll only make wise investments,” Daphne promised.

“That makes me feel so much better.”

*   *   *

“Toodle-oo! Anyone here?” a clear, high voice called out from the front of Unfinished Business.

Lila emerged from the back room with a Jacques Fath pantsuit
in one hand and a Romeo Gigli beaded halter top in the other. She had to fight the impulse to turn tail and flee when she saw Mimi Sinclair waving at her.

“Mrs. Sinclair!” She mustered a half smile. “Lovely to see you again. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you for asking. Summer mentioned that you and your mother officially opened your little shop—I was so very sorry to hear that Daphne has to go back to work; you have my deepest sympathies—and I thought I'd drop in and show my support.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

Mimi, oblivious to the sarcasm, flitted around the boutique, examining one-of-a-kind garments with an air of blasé sophistication.

Then she studied the hat-and-handbag display lining one wall and uttered the question that Lila had been dreading: “You don't have my handbags displayed yet?”

Lila swallowed hard. “Well, we—”

“Or have you sold them all already?”

“Hey, has Summer talked to you yet about the fashion show? She and my mother are putting a fun little fete together at the country club and they would so love for you to model.”

“Me? Really? Well, I hate to call attention to myself, but I
have
been told I have a certain star quality.”

“You'd be a fantastic addition to the show. Why don't you look around and see if there's something you'd like to wear?”

“This is nice.” Mimi held up a Nettie Rosenstein evening gown made of oyster-colored silk.

“It's gorgeous.” Lila walked Mimi toward the dressing room. “Not many women could fit into that waistline, but you're so trim and petite. Why don't you try it on?”

But Mimi could not be deterred from her mission. “And you
know what would look fabulous with it? The enameled clutch I dropped off the other day. Do you still have it, or did some fashion-forward customer snap it up the second you put it out?”

“We still have it,” Lila said. “Why? Have you changed your mind? I can return the bags to you, if you'd like. I understand why you'd hate to let them go.”

“Heavens, no. I told you—they're from last season. I only carry the latest and best.” Mimi patted her pink leather satchel, which, thanks to Daphne's tutelage, Lila now recognized as a knockoff.

“That's lovely,” she told Mimi.

“Isn't it? My husband brought it back from a consulting trip in Europe. He goes to such lengths to spoil me!” Mimi handed the ball gown to Lila and continued to browse, touching everything just enough that Lila would have to straighten all the hangers after she left. “I'm only at the beach house for the weekend—I've got so many social engagements back in D.C., you know—so why don't you go get those purses and we'll look at them right now. Together.”

Lila prayed for a sudden sinkhole to appear in the floor or an errant bolt of lightning to strike her dead on the spot.

She didn't get an official act of God, but she did get her mother.

“I'm finally here!” The shop's back door slammed as Daphne traipsed in. “And I struck gold at the estate sale! Wait until you see—”

“Mom!” Lila whirled around with wild eyes. “I'm so glad you're back! Mrs. Sinclair here has dropped by to wish us well on our grand opening—”

“I think you're
so
brave.” Mimi took one of Daphne's hands.

“—and to ask about the resale value of those handbags she dropped off the other morning.”

Daphne took a breath, then frowned in an almost comical display of confusion. “Handbags? Which handbags are those, sweet pea?”

Lila glared at her mother. “I'm sure you remember. The bags you said you were going to appraise?”

“Silly me, I must have forgotten in all the excitement!” Daphne turned to Mimi with her ditziest smile. “You can't imagine how distracted I've been lately with the construction and the inventory and the financial documents. I had no idea how much was involved in starting a business. My brain has absolutely turned to mush!”

“Well, when do you think you might be able to give me a number?” Mimi asked, not bothering to disguise her impatience. “I told my daughter she could use the proceeds from my old bags for a new phone.” She rolled her eyes. “Natalie lost a few phones this year, and my husband refuses to buy her another one until she quote-unquote ‘learns some responsibility.' But, obviously, she can't be the only one of her friends without her own phone—she's
very
popular—and my husband goes over all the credit card statements with a fine-tooth comb, so I told her I'd get cash and we'd just Enron the whole thing.”

Daphne and Lila avoided making eye contact.